


a couple hundred between friends

by avoidfilledwithcelluloid



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Fluff, I'm Sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9797876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avoidfilledwithcelluloid/pseuds/avoidfilledwithcelluloid
Summary: Archie counts how many rocks hit his window. Every knock against the glass is another count and wow! How is his dad not hearing this shit? But the hits keep coming until he rolls over and shoves the window up. Outside Jughead lights up beneath a swollen white moon. One hand is full of pebbles and the other hand holds more pebbles. Just two big handfuls of pebbles. Alright. So that’s going to be Archie’s night.Generic "sneaking into ya friend's bedroom after dark" fic





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry! i'm sorry i got into this silly show! and then wrote some v bland sugar sweet fic for it! i promise i'll do better! (i won't i won't do better. this is as good as its gonna get.)

Archie counts how many rocks hit his window. Every knock against the glass is another count and wow! How is his dad not hearing this shit? But the hits keep coming until he rolls over and shoves the window up. Outside Jughead lights up beneath a swollen white moon. One hand is full of pebbles and the other hand holds more pebbles. Just two big handfuls of pebbles. Alright. So that’s going to be Archie’s night.

“Let me come up,” Jughead says.

“What?” Archie shakes his head. “No. No, I won’t let you come up. Stay down there with your rocks.”

Without a word, Jughead opens his hands and all the rocks fall out. Dull thuds mark their landing on the grass and a grin splits Jughead’s face in two. _See Arch?_ His expression says. _I can be good._

“No more rocks!” Jughead gives his hands a dramatic shake. “Now, let me come up there.”

“Fine!” Archie turns from the window but leaves it open. A little whistle of activity finds him near wanting to look over the sill to watch Jughead climb. Some entertainment could be divined from his huffing and puffing all the way up. How many days passed between this moment and the last time Jughead climbed through his window? Maybe a couple hundred or could it be that time moved slower than that? A few days made to feel like fifty at a time all from tragedy. Archie runs a hand through his hair. Back before the summer, Jughead wore shirts with color.

The man of the hour flops over onto Archie’s dresser and knocks over half of his things. Every single one is loud as hell with sharp edges that tear into the quiet house. Archie panics with rapid body language. Phrases of discontent pass over his arms, hands, and face until Jughead shakes himself to his full height. Then the panic grows as he pulls out his laptop. Where’s Archie’s dad with a shotgun, storming down the hallway to demand his son give him an explanation for all this racket? Instead there’s just him and Jughead in the middle of his clutter.

“Nice place.” Jughead finds a spot on the floor untainted by dirty laundry and slides down, legs crossed before he hits the ground. “Good to see nothing’s changed since I last set foot in the man cave.”

“Don’t call my room a man cave.”

“Why not?” His laptop creaks as he opens it up. “I thought you were all about toxic masculinity now. I’m just trying to be supportive of your jock-core lifestyle.”

Great. Good. What Archie really wanted this evening was to hear Jughead poke holes in his self-esteem balloon except no, not at all. All he wants is to go to sleep and not see any more people until the morning. There are so many people around Archie lately who want something from him. At least until right now Jughead had kept his distance much like the neighborhood stray cat— silent, judgmental, only coming when promised food. Yet here is the cat come to Archie without even a nudge.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ah,” Jughead says and shakes his finger at Archie. “Not the real question! Ask again.”

“What? What the hell?” Archie paces. For a second he thinks of telling Jughead to just go. He doesn’t deserve word games. Maybe it hurts to admit but he can’t keep up in a competition of wit. Those playing fields are for people like Jughead and Betty who’ve got smarts for days. Or, at least Betty is smart. Jughead just talks until something clever sticks.

“Also not the real question.” Sickly blue outlines Jughead’s features. Every part of him is a movie that Archie knows the quotes and curves of. How long have they been friends? Lengths of time pull taffy long in a place like Riverdale. If Archie through an estimate out he’d be off by hundreds of days but hey. What’s a couple hundred between friends? If the fragile spider web between them now counts as friendship.

“Fine,” Archie says. “Let’s do this. What’s the real question?”

“Of course.” Jughead doesn’t look up from his laptop but still the edges of his mouth perk up. Despite all that grumpiness, Archie is pretty sure all Jughead wants is a person to play along. “The real question is what do I want and what I want is for you to read part of my novel.”

“For real?”

“Yeah,” Jughead says. “Scout’s honor.”

“Cool.” A thrill shoots through Archie. “Yeah man. Sounds cool.”

“So, it’s a little rough right now and this is just a first chapter.” With unsteady fingers, Jughead hands his laptop over. Sans electronic lighting he’s a collection of blurred lines amidst other blurred lines. Archie looks down at the word document, little cursor flashing at him like a wink from an attractive stranger. _C’mon in,_ it says. _Let’s go for a ride._ Yeah, man. Sounds cool. Let’s go for a ride around whatever junk Jughead popped out of his weird brain. Against the far wall, Archie leans back and slides to the ground. He glances up for permission to start but Jughead has his phone out, anxiety buzzing in his movement. Probably tweeting at everyone about the lack of books in Archie’s room or maybe taking notes about this night so he can write about it later.

“Okay,” Archie says. “I’ll be nice.”

Words blur together as he tries to read but Archie distracts himself by thinking about other things. He wonders what Betty is doing at that very second. The thought sits gummy in the back of his throat without any real answer. Instead of dwelling he moves on and stares at Jughead. Curls stick out from his beanie and are dark against his pale skin, all the color sucked out by too many nights under neon and dark bruise-blue skies. Does he know the person in front of him? Have the hundreds of days they’ve been apart been too many? Jughead’s lips go thin as he types away on his phone. What do those lips feel like? Taste like?

No. Not _those_ kind of thoughts. Archie’s got to stop having kissing thoughts about all his friends. At this rate, he’ll be lip locked with every person he knows. But, for a second, he entertains the idea of kissing Jughead. Swirls of soft thoughts surround the way he looks across to Jughead and when he looks up from his phone Archie forgets he’s supposed to be avoiding _that_ kind of thoughts.

“What?” Jughead says. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No.”

“Did you even read any of that?” He points to his laptop. Archie shrugs and tries to smile as humble as he can.

“I didn’t,” he says. “Sorry, sorry. I got distracted.”

“By what?”

“By you,” Archie admits. He doesn’t have anything to follow the statement, just another shrug. Jughead holds out his hand and, gently, Archie sets his laptop in it.

“My dear, dear Archie,” Jughead says. “You surprise at every corner.”

“Sorry.” The word grows repetitive in his mouth and Archie hopes his brain comes up with something new to say. “It’s just that I haven’t seen you in so long. Like, really seen you. Is that weird? Is it weird that I want to see you?”

“Considering you didn’t want to see me all summer, yeah.” A twang of bitterness cuts through Jughead’s tone. “So you want to stare at Ms. Grundy for six months and act like we’ve never met. But then I keep a secret for you and it’s all ‘Yeah Jug. I love to stare at your face like a huge creep. Didn’t you know that’s my favorite thing now?’ Somehow the pieces aren’t lining up.”

“Don’t get upset. Honest, I’m just,” Archie searches for the right word, “happy. I’m happy we’re friends again.”

“Yeah,” Jughead says. “Great, good, awesome friends.”

“Aw, cmon.” Archie stumbles to his feet as Jughead stands up, tucking his laptop away. “Don’t go. Don’t be upset. C’mon. You guys can’t all be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.” Between his fingers, Jughead rubs the strap of his bag. His breath goes quick with an audible tick to it. Gears turn inside that big head and Archie wishes he could see them just so he can understand what the fuck is going on. “But I have to go. School night, you know.”

Same as he came Jughead hefts himself up onto Archie’s dresser and out the window, hands tight on the sill. Only his eyes and the tip top of his head peep over.

“Be seeing you soon,” he says and clamors down the side of Archie’s house. All the things from his dresser clutter up his floor and one single piece of paper— a page of lyrics no less— has a Jughead sized shoe print on it. Archie holds it up to what little light the moon provides. Maybe he’s dreamed this whole occasion. Maybe this has been nothing but a mirage to fulfill his need for friendship or whatever he calls his relationship with Jughead now.

When he wakes up the print still stands out against the white page. No dream— only a strange reality.

…

Two weeks later and, near midnight, a rock hits Archie’s window. He got two weeks of undisturbed sleep yet paid the price with a twisted stomach over probably hurting Jughead’s three feelings. During those two weeks, he managed to limit the times he daydreamed about his maybe best friend to three times. Those thoughts haunt Archie but he can’t deny the thrill that strikes him every time he sees Jughead in the hall— a sweet burst of excitement that he knows this guy. So the sound is dreadful but welcome. Strange how everything follows that binary these days but Archie’s not in the mood to dwell on it. Makes his brain hurt.

He winces at the whistle the window makes when he opens it and hopes his dad’s been knocked out by Ambien or whatever sleep meds he’s on now. Down below Jughead stands with just one hand of rocks, almost like he knew Archie would actually answer this time. Instead of calling him Archie just gestures for Jughead to come on up. His stomach swings as Jughead starts to climb and he doesn’t stop watching. _How creepy can you get?_ Archie thinks. Well, actually, he could be creepier. In fact, he’s been creepier— all those dumb daydreams come to mind.

Stepping back so Jughead has room to swing a leg over the sill, Archie looks away to examine his wall. Ah yes. That _is_ a fascinating calendar. Off to his side, Jughead sweeps the dirt off his jeans and takes his bag off, dropping it to the floor. Archie clamps down on a swear at the loud thud and decides now it is okay to gaze.

“What’s going on with you?” Jughead says. “Am I so repulsive you can’t even gaze upon my earthly form?”

“No. I just thought you’d prefer I refrain from looking at you directly. You know, after last time.”

“Aw.” Falling back on Archie’s bed, Jughead grabs one of his pee-wee league trophies. “So you haven’t lost all your feelings to the pigskin.”

“Hey,” Archie says. “Remember when I won that thing?”

“Yeah, I do. You _made_ me come to that pizza party with all your football friends who hated me— still hate me, by the way.”

“I don’t know what you expected.” Archie sits on the bed next to Jughead. “You were my best friend.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” In the dark, the trophy doesn’t shine quite as bright as it used to. “Jeez, Arch, you always made me come to that kind of thing. Even though you know I hate parties. And awards. And people.”

“Yeah, but I liked having you there.”

“Hm,” Jughead says. He turns the trophy over in his hands one more time before putting it back. “By the way, nice pajamas. Did all your shirts bust over your rippling muscles?”

“You think my muscles are rippling?”

“I think that your brain is being slowly replaced by protein shakes.” Jughead leans down to grab his bag and rummage through it. God, if he would just stop wearing so much black. Every time he moves around it looks like a raccoon digging through garbage. How is Archie attracted to this? Feelings move in mysterious ways.

Jughead pulls out a bottle of black nail polish and holds it out to Archie.

“I want you to paint my nails,” he says.

“What?”

“Is your masculinity too fragile for this?” Jughead says. “Are you too fragile to paint another guy’s nails?”

“No,” Archie says. “I’m fine. I’ll do it. Just, you know, give me a minute.”

He takes the nail polish and twists off the cap. A strong chemical smell shoots up like an arrow to the brain and Archie pulls back. Is this stuff going to get on his bed? God, what would he do if his dad found nail polish in his sheets? As questions spin around with webs of polish stink, he hardly notices Jughead spread his fingers out, palms down and waiting.

“Jesus,” Archie says. “This stuff is powerful.”

“You huff that shit,” Jughead says, “and you’ll be seeing rainbows.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Maybe.”

Archie adds that _maybe_ to the pile of maybes building up in his mind’s file on Jughead. So many mysteries for such a little guy. Other mysteries include: how does Jughead know so much about what goes on in the town? Does he crawl around in corners and crevices? Creep upon every civilian crooning their sad tales? Why does he want his nails polished? Did Jughead really forgive Archie? Could he like Archie back? Does he dye his hair or has it always been that shiny black? No matter how he tries, Archie can’t remember whether he’s ever seen Jughead with any other color hair.

He also can’t remember any time where Jughead has forgiven anyone. Grudges grow inside him like weeds out of sidewalk cracks— reaching always for an angry warmth. Once Jughead kept a grudge against a kid for taking the paste he wanted and Archie is pretty sure that fire is still be stoked. Archie’s hands shake as he paints Jughead’s thumbnail and the paint goes wavy from his finger twitches.

“Steady as she goes, Andrews,” Jughead says.

“I’m working on it.” Archie dips the brush back into the bottle before painting the next nail. He’s staring at Jughead’s fingers which are dry and cracking just a bit. Little lines run over the skin like tributaries across a forest floor and Archie traces them with careful eyes. Can’t risk being caught again. At some point, the moon doesn’t provide enough light so he reaches over to turn on his lamp— a football shaped monstrosity.

“How long have you had that thing?” Jughead says. “I remember you having that when we were in third grade.”

“It still works,” Archie says. “Why get a new one?”

“Isn’t new your thing now?”

“Are you trying to talk about something by not talking about it?” Archie rolls his eyes. Tiny tremors make Jughead’s hand struggle to keep still so Archie takes his wrist in hand and hunches down closer. Brushing the thin skin on the underside of Jughead’s wrist is a weird and wonderful sensation— close enough to touch but still hidden beneath necessity. At least this moment can be explained.

“Maybe,” Jughead says. “And what if I am?”

“I don’t know,” Archie says. “I wish you’d just say what you mean. I wish everyone would just, you know, be honest. Everyone keeps trying to be something they aren’t and usually, you’re the one person who says things straight but lately—”

“Me?” Jughead looks at Archie with a glint of incredulity in his expression. “Let’s talk about you just, out of nowhere, acting like we’re best friends again. Like you can stare at me? And, and, for another thing—”

“No, no,” Archie says. “I’m acting like we’re best friends again? What do you call this? Huh? You just start throwing rocks at my window and crawling in my room and asking me to read your novel and to paint your nails and just treating me like I owe you—”

“You do owe me!” Archie’s stomach twists the louder Jughead gets. His discomfort must show on his face because Jughead starts to speak in a hissed whisper instead. “You _do_ owe me. You deserted me over the summer to make out with our music teacher. I’m supposed to be your friend, Archie, but now I’m just the guy on your porch telling you to do the right thing. I’m just the guy throwing rocks at your window. It’s like I don’t know you anymore and you don’t know me. You made us strangers.”

“I didn’t,” Archie starts but stops. Silence hangs between them like a wet rag heavy with every small truth he’s facing. “Look. I don’t know what to do to make you happy.”

“It’s not about making me happy,” Jughead says. “It’s about being you again. It’s about not being this guy who keeps secrets. You don’t have the capacity for secrets, Archie.”

Jughead’s fingers, half polished and messy, scrunch against Archie’s palm. Breath gets stuck in Archie’s throat, trapped there by all the things he wants to do.

“Just tell me one,” Jughead says. “Just give me one secret.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Maybe,” Jughead says. “Give me a secret first.”

“I don’t have my phone number memorized.”

“Terrible secret. Yes, you can kiss me.”

Archie leans down and puts his hands on Jughead’s shoulders, squeezing there with a hint of reassurance. He’s not sure if it’s for himself or for Jughead. Slowly Jughead closes his eyes and Archie just memorizes how anticipation looks on him— like someone on the edge of sleeping. A moment’s hesitation then he tucks his head into the space between them, slides his lips against Jughead’s. Mouth closed but smooth, Archie presses up firm to Jughead whose hands come up around his face. Two thumbs dig into the flesh of his cheeks and as small as a piece of candy is the smile Archie feels curve against his mouth.

“Is this good?” Jughead mumbles into the kiss.

“Great,” Archie says.

Jughead’s kiss doesn’t taste like anything, no sweet flavor except that dull tang of someone else’s spit. Maybe Archie’s too used to kissing girls, all cherry, and bubblegum flavored lip glosses. He doesn’t mind the soft nothingness on his tongue, especially once Jughead opens his mouth beneath Archie’s and he can feel the edges of his teeth in all their sharpness. Space doesn’t exist— only objects. Surfaces to come up against. A couple hundred years pass during the kiss but Archie can’t count them. What’s a couple hundred compared to fingers tangled in his hair, to the push-back of Jughead leaning into him?

There’s a pop when they part and Archie won’t open his eyes. It’s not that he’s afraid. He’s not very brave when it comes to romance. If this is romance now, of course. When he peeks open one eye Jughead laughs.

“Come out,” he says. One half painted hand drags down Archie’s face and touches a thumb to his bottom lip. It gives a gentle tug, enough that Archie opens both eyes to see when Jughead pulls his hand back. “Was it what you wanted?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” Jughead raises both his hands up, fingernails facing Archie. “You have a job to finish. No kiss is getting you out of it.”

“I still owe you?”

“You still owe me big time,” Jughead says. “But paint my nails and I’ll tell you if you’re in the clear or not.”

Slipping one hand underneath Jughead’s, Archie raises it up so he can see where he left off. With a shivering brush he paints Jughead’s middle finger. His mouth buzzes.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks.

“I’ll let you know.” Jughead says.

The night wears on until all Jughead’s nail shine a midnight black. Jiggling his hands until they dry, Jughead doesn’t look at Archie. Something clenches inside Archie, a feeling that sounds like anxiety but feels like a raw egg sliding down into his gullet. These two ideas must be the same because he can’t focus enough to hear what Jughead is saying and oh shit! Jughead is talking!

“You did an alright job,” he says. “I don’t think you’re done owing me yet. That’ll probably take about a hundred more favors. Maybe even a thousand.”

“What kind of favors?”

“Burgers. Giving me feedback on my stuff.” Jughead swallows with a nervous throat. “Keeping your window open in case I get bored at night.”

“I can do that,” Archie says.

“And don’t make this weird,” Jughead says.

“I won’t make it weird,” Archie says.

He’s totally going to make it weird.

“Alright.” Adjusting his bag strap, Jughead starts to climb out the window. One hand on his shoulder Archie stops him and leans down for one small kiss on the forehead.

“Stay safe,” he says and Jughead grumbles all the way down. In the fat moonlight, he’s just an outline against Archie’s front lawn. Archie watches him hitch his bike up and pedal away into the night like a boat sailing off to new shores. Maybe tomorrow night he’ll be back, throwing rocks and demanding favors, or maybe he’ll wait another two weeks. That schedule’s fine with Archie. He can wait. What’s a couple days between friends?

 _Friends?_ He thinks of a warm mouth on his, of closed eyes and black nail polish. _Yeah. Friends._

For now, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> did you like this? did you really? then you might enjoy looking through my [tumblr](http://avoidfilledwithcelluloid.tumblr.com/)


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